"And the quiet hung there before us, then — we waited, afraid to break that beauty, afraid the loss would push its way back in, afraid of whatever would follow until finally, Chester began again, 'What have I to dread, what have I to fear, leaning on the everlasting arms?'"

"When a letter cost nine pence, it seemed but fair to try to make it worth nine pence... Now, however, we think we are too busy for such old-fashioned correspondence. We fire off a multitude of rapid and short notes."